


The List

by olly_octopus



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (I suppose), Bodyswap, Humour, Just for the record, M/M, Masturbation, S1E6, and once i wrote softcore porn based off american gothic, aziraphale is a fucking idiot, aziraphale is also Fucking An Idiot But sssshhh lets not hurt Crowley’s feelings, but like????, but mainly humour and smut, idk - Freeform, if u read you’ll understand, minimal angst if you squint v e r y hard, ohh yeah smut, thats all i can think to call it, theres plenty of that, this is the weirdest thing I’ve ever written in my life, ughhffg im back lads, unconventional sorta
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2020-06-27 04:18:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19783111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/olly_octopus/pseuds/olly_octopus
Summary: Aziraphale straightens out the crumpled notepaper and skims through it for what seems like the hundredth time. Crowley has a list, just like his, and so he ought to. Amongst the petty comments about not leaving socks lying around and not touching his lipstick, three rules stand out to Aziraphale most of all:Rule one: no being kind to those bloody plants.Rule two: no drinking the 1998 Veuve Clicquot La Grande Dame.Rule three: no masturbating.“That shouldn’t be a problem,” he murmurs to himself, like a liar.***The Body Swap situation requires rules; something similar like one would receive when house-sitting. But what are rules if not made to be broken?





	The List

**Author's Note:**

> fun fact it’s scientifically proven that you can’t watch the moomins and write porn at the same time trust me i know im a scientist 
> 
> i am Not Brilliant at writing porn u have been warned

A List Of Rules For The BodySwap Situation, by Crowley, for Aziraphale.

No being kind to those bloody plants.  
No drinking the 1998 Veuve Clicquot La Grande Dame.  
No masturbating.  
No leaving socks lying around.  
No cooking kippers in the building.  
Try not to burn down the flat.  
Keep all kiwis away from person at all costs.  
Keep injuries to a minimum wherever possible.  
No using my GOOD red lipstick.  
If you ever take the Bentley for a ride, you better not scratch up the leather interior; it’s antique.

***

The list was beginning to bother Aziraphale.

He’d thought about picking it delicately to pieces a little while ago, like one would with a napkin in a restaurant with a particularly long waiting time until food arrives and the drinks have been finished some twenty minutes beforehand… but he can’t. He knows all he realistically has to do is pin it up on the wall and wait impatiently until kingdom come or Crowley decides this whole thing is a ridiculous idea and comes sashaying into his own flat in Aziraphale’s body, but it just seems like too much hassle.

Aziraphale sighs in frustration, and finds that he still isn’t quite used to hearing it come out in Crowley’s voice.  
“Aziraphale, you may do whatever you like, not limited to but definitely including drinking every fancy alcohol you come across,” he mumbles childishly, and hates that it actually makes him feel better. Sod this whole affair; you save the world once and all of a sudden you’re in an even worse place than where you began, give or take in a body previously inhabited by your best friend who also happens to be a demon. How awful. Surely, theoretically, you should save the world and then people start giving you free pastries? Or at least a cup of tea.

But the list is upsetting him. 

Not because it’s unreasonable or anything, although a couple definitely are, but because of the implications that follow. 

Aziraphale groans and unfolds the list, which takes him an inordinately long time due to the fact that he’s been folding it over and over in his hand like he hopes it’ll eventually disappear. (It hasn’t.)

Aziraphale straightens out the crumpled notepaper and skims through it for what seems like the hundredth time. Crowley has a list, just like his, and so he ought to. Amongst the petty comments about not leaving socks lying around and not touching his lipstick, three rules stand out to Aziraphale most of all:  
Rule one: no being kind to those bloody plants.  
Rule two: no drinking the 1998 Veuve Clicquot La Grande Dame.  
Rule three: no masturbating.

“That shouldn’t be a problem,” he murmurs to himself, like a liar.

It’s not that… well. 

He’d never take advantage of Crowley’s body, even if it is barely anything more than a mere vessel to go to the park and back with, but that doesn’t mean Crowley has to come right out and say it.  
“The same rules apply to me, too, angel,” he reminds Aziraphale in Aziraphale’s mind’s eye, waving a pen in his face. “Oh, and try not to bring strangers home if you can help it. Should I put that down? I think it’s a given.” Well, at least that would be easy enough, thinks Aziraphale sulkily. Aziraphale hasn’t slept with anyone since Oscar Wilde, and look how that turned out. 1895 had been a rough time for everyone.

No, it’s none of that, really. 

It’s just that Crowley’s body is so… sensitive. 

He can feel it, now, the thin fabric of his shirt ghosting over his skin, and well, it’s less than warm in the flat. Perhaps Crowley’s used to it, but for Aziraphale? It’s close to unbearable. When was the last time Crowley had sex? You know, not like it’s his business or anything, but one just doesn’t get to this point without denying oneself of particular earthly pleasures after all. Sex should be a release, like riding a rollercoaster or hang-gliding, and it seems almost a shame to never indulge in it for the sake of the tired myth of virginity or just never daring to step out of a comfort zone.

Not everyone does have sex, because not everyone wants to, but Crowley’s body is aching for it and Aziraphale considers giving him a telephone call just to let him know how bloody infuriating it is to have to inhabit a vessel that, quite frankly, is like edgeplay manifested into human form.

But no, it won’t be a problem. Aziraphale can respect rules, as an angel, and he can respect Crowley’s privacy even more.

This is going to be easy.

***

But it was not easy.

Although, we knew that, really; because we know what structure techniques are and dramatic irony is one of our favourites as techniques go. For us, an audience knowing the ins and outs of good storytelling (and this is a good story), we can appreciate this both critically and from a general entertainment standpoint and hopefully even find it pretty funny.

Aziraphale, however, is not amused.

“Oh, goodness…” he mutters, observing the trembling plants surrounding him. “What on earth has he done to you?” 

He steps closer, plant mister in hand, inspecting all the leaves cautiously.  
“I knew he was harsh, but I didn't know he was this bad. I really must have a word with him when we meet next, eh?” The plants seem to still a little, realising that this Definitely Is Not Crowley and there is No Need To Be Worried.  
“Poor darlings,” croons Aziraphale without quite meaning to. He cocks his head to one side. “I know Crowley said I shouldn’t be nice to you, but there can’t be any harm in just a little compassion…”  
That was what you said back in Eden, a little voice reminds him in the back of his head. That was what you said when you gave away the sword, and how did that turn out for you?

Except that Aziraphale’s sense of compassion and love is far stronger than his sense of hubris or danger, or for that matter, his common sense. Aziraphale is an idiot, no doubt about it, but he’s an idiot that’d sooner die than cuss out a poor innocent geranium for the sake of coping strategies or whatever it is that Crowley’s doing. And so, he closes his eyes and sends out a little of his energy into the room, allowing the divine light to encompass his being and envelop the plants. It’s almost cathartic, in a way, and when he opens his eyes it’s to a scene that reminds him somewhat of Eden itself.

“Oh, this is heavenly,” he murmurs in awe, and privately hopes that this doesn’t mean it's going to hurt Crowley to come in any more. He thinks to write out a yellow sticky note for later use.

And, in his back pocket, one of the rules, specifically number one: “no being kind to those bloody plants”, burns away quietly leaving nothing but a charred hole behind.

***

It was Aziraphale’s own fault, really, for making himself miserable.

All he’d done was go searching around to see if he couldn’t find himself a decent hot water bottle, and he’d stumbled across a couple of letters from roughly five hundred years ago, detailing to Crowley exactly how some bricklayer from Manchester could, quote: “maketh thee unable to rideth a h'rse f'r weeks aft'r thee has't ridden me.”

It upsets him.

And Crowley, the bastard, doesn’t seem to have any good alcohol except obviously, the 1998 Veuve Clicquot La Grande Dame, that is, the 1998 Veuve Clicquot La Grande Dame that Aziraphale is Strictly Forbidden to drink. It isn’t even like he couldn’t return it afterwards, and he’s positive he could miracle an extra case of the stuff for Crowley if he so desired— but no. No, that would be wrong of him.

“Sod the bricklayer,” he mumbles, hoping Crowley’s voice will comfort him like it’s been so apt for doing the past 6000 years, but the same little unhelpful voice in his brain that might be this body’s brain getting in the way whispers, ‘more like the bricklayer sods Crowley’, and then whoopsy daisy there goes Aziraphale’s fragile mental health. Look at it soar. Magnificent. 

The 1998 Veuve Clicquot La Grande Dame, the 1998 Veuve Clicquot La Grande Dame that Aziraphale isn’t allowed to drink, is sitting in a cupboard and innocently beckoning to him like the apple itself, except the apple probably didn’t have the capability to give Aziraphale a hangover in the morning. Crowley would approve, he decides eventually.

Surely, he thinks, glancing around for a bottle opener, there’s no good reason for Crowley to have kept this letter around? Like, what, 1742 was just boring and unremarkable enough to the point where Crowley soiled his celestial form with bricklayers from Manchester? Called, what… Aziraphale checks the bottom of the letter. Robert. Robert the bricklayer from Manchester. He’s got some nerve.  
“Well, Robert,” mumbles Aziraphale in Crowley’s voice, finally giving up the bottle opener for a bad job and just deciding to miracle it open, “little did you know, you’ve probably damned your soul to hell forever. Fancy sleeping with a demon! It’s your own fault, really.”

Robert doesn’t reply, which is unsurprising since he’s long dead and buried and hopefully living in torment in hell.

“I’m going to hell,” mumbles Aziraphale like it’s a sudden revelation. “I am going to hell, and they all want me dead down there. And Crowley is going to heaven, and he’s going to be trialed too.”

Trialed.

They won’t be trialed, not really, they’ll just be accused and sentenced whilst Gabriel and Beelzebub look on and gloat. How tedious.

“Bet Crowley never risked his life for you, huh, Robert?”  
Aziraphale grins and tips his head back as the 1998 Veuve Clicquot La Grande Dame slips down his throat and Aziraphale sets his mind to Not Thinking about Robert the sodding bricklayer. Aziraphale hopes he’s only ever laid bricks.

Rule two, No drinking the 1998 Veuve Clicquot La Grande Dame, burns away silently without Aziraphale noticing.

***

Crowley’s body is playing up.

It’s been playing up, now, for about four hours and it’s even worse in bed and it’s driving Aziraphale slowly but surely up the wall. Does Crowley really just… live like this? Every finger trail down his stomach like sparks flying across his skin? Heart thudding in his ears at the mere thought of release, knees impossible to support himself, desperate and aching… surely. Surely he must at least touch himself. Because this? What Aziraphale has right now? It’s an instrument of pleasure dying to be tinkered with. 

“No touching,” he murmurs quietly. No masturbation. 

The plants were different, the wine was different, but this? It’s barely anything more than a sketchy line between betrayal and loyalty drawn in a particularly cheap 5H pencil, and Aziraphale is determined not to cross it. All the same…

If the body is an instrument, there’s other ways to play it than clunking one’s way across with all the grace and musical talent of a clumsy housecat.  
“Aziraphale,” he whispers, testing the waters and oh this is strange, and he knows Crowley’s body doesn’t really know what to do with itself. But the spike of adrenaline that hits Aziraphale at the sound of Crowley’s voice, speaking his name like a revelation from Christ himself, oh yes it feels that. 

Something jumps in his stomach, and if he can- just— yes. Aziraphale shifts so that he’s propping himself up on the pillows, chin resting on his chest and legs spread about a 45° angle apart. The front of Crowley’s infuriatingly tight jeans are slightly tented, which Aziraphale honestly hadn’t been fully sure could happen before now. Crowley’s body— and Aziraphale’s brain— are both unmistakably aroused and oh, this is getting interesting...  
“Oh, my,” says Aziraphale, eyes roving over Crowley- Crowley? ‘Crowley’s body’— makes it sound so objectifying. He opts to go with Crowley. Makes things so much simpler.

Crowley is trembling, hard and, above all, making Aziraphale’s self restraint ebb away like saltwater through a sieve. But he can hold out. He’s been waiting for 6000 years for a chance, just one chance with the demon and what’s another little bit of patience in the long run? 

He wonders…

“Look at you, so desperate. Just begging to be touched. Well, I’m not going to touch you and if you want to get off tonight then you’d better listen to me.”  
Is this what Crowley means by putting the ‘fear of Crowley’ into his plants? If so, good lord does it work. Crowley’s jeans strain a little at Aziraphale’s words and honestly gives a whole body shudder that makes goosebumps erupt all over his skin and Aziraphale (rather inappropriately) feels like fist pumping. 

“Oh dear, this simply won’t do,” he mumbles, and Thinks Very Hard and suddenly at the foot of his bed there’s a full length, ornate mirror at just the right angle to let Aziraphale watch over all the proceedings as he wishes. Perfect.

“You’re so needy,” he says quietly, eyes travelling over Crowley’s form. “I don’t know how he must treat you, but I’m going to treat you so. Much. Better.”  
Hips buck up into thin air, and Aziraphale lets out an involuntary hiss as a tidal wave of pleasure hits his brain.  
“You’re such a slut,” he murmurs through a haze of arousal. “Don’t you have any loyalty at all to Crowley? Just desperate to be pleasured by anyone, all of the time, you don’t even care who’s in charge. I could be anyone, couldn’t I? I could be- gosh, I don’t know, Robert? Robert from Manchester? 1742? Ring any bells for you?”

Crowley’s legs fall apart like a flower opening its petals for spring. Aziraphale feels a peculiar mixture of wonder and stupendous jealousy.

”I thought you might have that opinion. Well, rest assured that if Robert was good, you haven’t seen religious ecstasy yet, my dear; oh, you haven’t seen anything. Did he make you feel good? How much of you did he really have? Body? Mind? Soul? I know he had at least one, and I suppose that’d be enough for you. You’re just aching for it, aren’t you? You’re shocking.”

The front of Crowley’s jeans is suspiciously sticky, now, but Aziraphale knows he’s far from done. For a second, he reflects that this is quite easily the weirdest thing he’s ever done in all his 6000 years on earth but finds that quite honestly he doesn’t care. As long as he has Crowley, or at least his body, he knows that the strangeness of the situation will never be an issue.

“Where did he touch you? Where do you like to be touched? Apart from, well, you know. The parts I’m not allowed to go.”

If Crowley’s form could have made a whimper, it would have, but as it stands it’s stuck with trying to communicate with Aziraphale in the most infuriating way it possibly can. Aziraphale feels Crowley’s inner thighs tingle, his neck, the space between his belly button and nether regions and he understands.  
“So, that’s where I can touch you? Can’t see why there’d be any objections to that. But you’re staying fully clothed, do you understand?”

Again, if Crowley’s form could have screamed, it would have. 

“Don’t be such a drama queen,” mutters Aziraphale, going a little pink. “These aren’t my rules. You really are just a vessel of temptation, eh?”  
The extraordinary feeling of ‘yes’ that surrounds him is nearly overpowering.

“Alright then,” mumbles Aziraphale and loosens Crowley’s ridiculous necktie that suddenly feels all too constricting despite that fact that it’s being worn looser than one would wear even a necklace. Maybe if he…

Aziraphale holds up the offending item to his nose and inhales deeply, revelling in the scent of smoke and, presumably very recently, a little bit of 1998 Veuve Clicquot La Grande Dame. Forbidden fruit, much.

“You’re so gorgeous like this,” remarks Aziraphale casually, fingers dancing over paper thin clothes on their way to Crowley’s thighs. “Absolutely lovely, my dear. You just need to learn how to behave for me if we’re going to be spending a little bit of time together.” He’s sensitive, so sensitive and Aziraphale feels it with every exquisite touch and it’s taking every part of him to not just give in and have him, all of him, break the rules, break presumably Crowley’s trust too.  
“But then I’d be no better than Robert,” Aziraphale mumbles. 

Jealousy, thy name art Aziraphale.

“I know this is probably quite confusing for you,” announces Aziraphale to Crowley. “After all, I’m not really here, am I? Can’t see anything, can’t feel me there; for you it’s presumably quite a strange experience. But…” he sighs. “You’re not really here, either. Think of it like I’m house-sitting. And giving you a helping hand while your owner’s not here.”

Not literally, he reminds himself. More like… gently encouraging. Yeah, that sounds a lot better.

“How do you like to be played with,” he asks. “I obviously can’t do it myself, but at least I can talk you through it. Do you like to be… um. Fucked?”  
Crowley’s body shudders, and again hips buck up into thin air without anything to make contact with.  
“I’ll take that as a ‘yes’. How did… Robert fuck you?”

Aziraphale thinks for a moment. “Did he go slowly? Did he take his time with every inch of you, savouring you like a dessert, how he should? Or do you like it fast and hard, maybe rough; I suppose a bricklayer would be able to throw you about a bit. Legs over shoulders… what will your hair have been like in 1742? Longer, wasn’t it? Started putting it in a ponytail, didn’t you. Did he run his fingers through it, let it curl loose around your shoulders? It would have been the eighth wonder of the world, I’m sure. Do you like it pulled?”

Once more, the answer from the surrounding air is a resounding ‘yes’.

He can picture it, some faceless stranger fucking into Crowley, thinking he owns him, thinking he’s his and all his without knowing quite what he’s got on his hands. He doesn’t love Crowley, and with any luck he’ll die in a few years from some ghastly disease after Crowley never wrote him back. 

“I don’t know if it was just Robert, of course. It could’ve been many people, all through history, all thinking they have you but never understanding that you’ll never belong to them. You just slept your way through the centuries, I suppose, with any number of mortals who liked what you had to offer. Did you get commendations in hell for the souls you sent to them purely through lust?”  
Crowley’s close, and Aziraphale can feel it in the way his toes curl up and he can see it in the mirror at the bottom of the bed, eyes glazed over and entire form trembling like a leaf.  
“But you’ll never be theirs. You’re mine, and you’ve been mine since the beginning of time, from the garden of Eden till now. Just you wait. When you have your right mind back where it should be, I’m going to fuck it right back out again and Robert’s going to feel the repercussions from the darkest corner of hell— oh!”

Then he’s There and it’s impossible to tell who exactly was the one There or whether it was both of them or whether, perhaps, half and half becoming a whole at last. Aziraphale lets out a shaky breath and stares down at where Crowley’s jeans are quite ruined.

“It’d take a miracle to get that out,” he remarks quietly.

Rule three, no masturbating, singes a little in confusion then promptly goes out, leaving the words slightly blackened but not quite burnt away. It’s probably for the best.

***

“Who was Robert,” Aziraphale asks suddenly, about a week later. Crowley turns in some confusion, back in his normal body (thankfully) to stare at him.  
“Who?”  
“Robert. Bricklayer Robert.”  
Crowley grimaces. “...Sorry, angel, I don’t know—“  
“Manchester? 1742? Robert, ‘maketh thee unable to rideth a h'rse f'r weeks aft'r thee has't ridden me’?”  
Crowley’s face snaps into one of understanding.  
“Ohhh. Him? You found the letter, then. Can’t say I blame you for wanting to have a snoop. He was quite sweet, really, but—“

Aziraphale narrows his eyes and Crowley hastily finishes his sentence.  
“That is! He was sweet, but, um. Not really my type.”  
“So you didn’t sleep with him?”  
“Well. I didn’t say that, now, did I? Hell was very, er, hellbound on the whole ‘seduce as many people as possible’ kind of deal back in the day and what can I say? He took a shine to me.”

They sit in awkward silence on the bench, Crowley trying to figure out how best to put it and Aziraphale radiating Cold Shoulder.  
“Look,” tries Crowley at last. “If you’re worried about me getting hung up on some idiot mortal man who could kind of do alright things with his hands, you have nothing to fear. He actually fucked off not too long after we shagged. We never spoke again after December 1743.”  
Aziraphale perks up a little at this.  
“You didn’t? Why not?”  
Crowley looks a little uncomfortable.  
“...Well. Let’s just say he didn’t take it too well when he was three fingers deep and I called him ‘Aziraphale’. Tried to convince him it was Latin for ‘lover’, but he was having none of it. Probably for the best, to be honest.”

It takes all of two seconds for this to sink in, then Aziraphale’s face slowly transitions into one of immense smugness.  
“Ah.”  
“Ah indeed.”

Aziraphale turns and grins at Crowley with the expression of one who has just been promised a luxury gift basket of cinder toffee.  
“Well in that case, I made some promises to your body while I was house-sitting that I think I’d better hold myself to.”  
Crowley’s eyes shine from behind his dark glasses.  
“Yes. I think you better had.”

**Author's Note:**

> please give me attention
> 
> tumblr is @/ollyoctopus


End file.
